Alone in his room that night Garrison endeavored to focus the stray thoughts, suspicions that the day's events had set running through his brain. All Sue Desha had said, and had meant without saying, had been photographed on the sensitized plate of his memory—that plate on which the negatives of the past were but filmy shadows. Now, of them all, the same Garrison was on the sky-line of his imagination.
Could it be possible that Billy Garrison and he were one and the same? And then that incident of the train. Surely he had heard it before, somewhere in the misty long ago. It seemed, too, as if it had occurred coincidently with the moment he had first looked into those gray eyes. He laughed nervously to himself.
“If I was Garrison, whoever he was, I wonder what kind of a person I was! They speak of him as if he had been some one—And then Mrs. Calvert said he had disappeared. Perhaps I am Garrison.”
Nervously he brought forth the page from the race-track annual Sue had given him, and studied it intently. “Yes, it does look like me. But it may be only a double; a coincidence.” He racked his brain for a stray gleam of retrospect, but it was not forthcoming. “It's no use,” he sighed wearily, “my life began when I left the hospital. And if I was Garrison, surely I would have been recognized by some one in New York.
“Hold on,” he added eagerly, “I remember the first day I was out a man caught me by the arm on Broadway and said: 'Hello, Billy!' Let me think. This Garrison's name was Billy. The initials on my underwear were W. G.—might be William Garrison instead of the William Good I took. But if so, how did I come to be in the hospital without a friend in the world? The doctors knew nothing of me. Haven't I any parents or relatives—real relatives, not the ones I am imposing on?”
He sat on the bed endeavoring to recall some of his past life; even the faintest gleam. Then absently he turned over the photograph he held. On the reserve side of the leaf was the record of Billy Garrison. Garrison studied it eagerly.
“Born in eighty-two. Just my age, I guess—though I can't swear how old I am, for I don't know. Stable-boy for James R. Keene. Contract bought by Henry Waterbury. Highest price ever paid for bought-up contract. H'm! Garrison was worth something. First win on the Gravesend track when seventeen. A native of New York City. H'm! Rode two Suburban winners; two Brooklyn Handicaps; Carter Handicap; the Grand Prix, France; the Metropolitan Handicap; the English Derby—Oh, shucks! I never did all those things; never in God's world,” he grunted wearily. “I wouldn't be here if I had. It's all a mistake. I knew it was. Sue was kidding me. And yet—they say the real Billy Garrison has disappeared. That's funny, too.”
He took a few restless paces about the room. “I'll go down and pump the major,” he decided finally. “Maybe unconsciously he'll help me to remember. I'm in a fog. He ought to know Garrison. If I am Billy Garrison—then by my present rank deception I've queered a good record. But I know I'm not. I'm a nobody. A dishonest nobody to boot.”
Major Calvert was seated by his desk in the great old-fashioned library, intently scanning various racing-sheets and the multitudinous data of the track. A greater part of his time went to the cultivation of his one hobby—the track and horses—for by reason of his financial standing, having large cotton and real-estate holdings in the State, he could afford to use business as a pastime.
He spent his mornings and afternoons either in his stables or at the extensive training-quarters of his stud, where he was as indefatigable a rail-bird as any pristine stable-boy.
A friendly rivalry had long existed between his neighbor and friend, Colonel Desha, and himself in the matter of horse-flesh. The colonel was from Kentucky—Kentucky origin—and his boast was that his native State could not be surpassed either in regard to the quality of its horses or women. And, though chivalrous, the colonel always mentioned “women” last.
“Just look at Rogue and my daughter, Sue, suh,” he was wont to say with pardonable pride. “Thoroughbreds both, suh.”
It was a matter of record that the colonel, though less financially able, was a better judge of horses than his friend and rival, the major, and at the various county meets it was Major Calvert who always ran second to Colonel Desha's first.
The colonel's faith in Rogue had been vindicated at the last Carter Handicap, and his owner was now stimulating his ambition for higher flights. And thus far, the major, despite all his expenditures and lavish care, could only show one county win for his stable. His friend's success had aroused him, and deep down in his secret heart he vowed he would carry off the next prize Colonel Desha entered for, even if it was one of the classic handicaps itself.
Dixie, a three-year-old filly whom he had recently purchased, showed unmistakable evidences of winning class in her try-outs, and her owner watched her like a hawk, satisfaction in his heart, biding the time when he might at last show Kentucky that her sister State, Virginia, could breed a horse or two.
“I'll keep Dixie's class a secret,” he was wont to chuckle to himself, as, perched on the rail in all sorts of weather, he clicked off her time. “I think it is the Carter my learned friend will endeavor to capture again. I'm sure Dixie can give Rogue five seconds in seven furlongs—and a beating. That is, of course,” he always concluded, with good-humored vexation, “providing the colonel doesn't pick up in New York an animal that can give Dixie ten seconds. He has a knack of going from better to best.”
Now Major Calvert glanced up with a smile as Garrison entered.
“I thought you were in bed, boy. Leave late hours to age. You're looking better these days. I think Doctor Blandly's open-air physic is first-rate, eh? By the way, Crimmins tells me you were out on Midge to-day, and that you ride—well, like Billy Garrison himself. Of course he always exaggerates, but you didn't say you could ride at all. Midge is a hard animal.” He eyed Garrison with some curiosity. “Where did you learn to ride? I thought you had had no time nor means for it.”
“Oh, I merely know a horse's tail from his head,” laughed Garrison indifferently. “Speaking of Garrison, did you ever see him ride, major?”
“How many times have I asked you to say uncle, not major?” reproved Major Calvert. “Don't you feel as if you were my nephew, eh? If there's anything I've left undone—”
“You've been more than kind,” blurted out Garrison uncomfortably. “More than good—uncle.” He was hating himself. He could not meet the major's kindly eyes.
“Tut, tut, my boy, no fine speeches. Apropos of this Garrison, why are you so interested in him? Wish to emulate him, eh? Yes, I've seen him ride, but only once, when he was a bit of a lad. I fancy Colonel Desha is the one to give you his merits. You know Garrison's old owner, Mr. Waterbury, is returning with the colonel. He will be his guest for a week or so.”
“Oh,” said Garrison slowly. “And who is this Garrison riding for now?”
“I don't know. I haven't followed him. It seems as if I heard there was some disagreement or other between him and Mr. Waterbury; over that Carter Handicap, I think. By the way, if you take an interest in horses, and Crimmins tells me you have an eye for class, you rascal, come out to the track with me to-morrow. I've got a filly which I think will give the colonel's Rogue a hard drive. You know, if the colonel enters for the next Carter, I intend to contest it with him—and win.” He chuckled.
“Then you don't know anything about this Garrison?” persisted Garrison slowly.
“Nothing more than I've said. He was a first-class boy in his time. A boy I'd like to have seen astride of Dixie. Such stars come up quickly and disappear as suddenly. The life's against them, unless they possess a hard head. But Mr. Waterbury, when he arrives, can, I dare say, give you all the information you wish. By the way,” he added, a twinkle in his eye, “what do you think of the colonel's other thoroughbred? I mean Miss Desha?”
Garrison felt the hot blood mounting to his face. “I—I—that is, I—I like her. Very much indeed.” He laughed awkwardly, his eyes on the parquet floor.
“I knew you would, boy. There's good blood in that girl—the best in the States. Perhaps a little odd, eh? But, remember, straight speech means a straight mind. You see, the families have always been all in all to each other; the colonel is a school-chum of mine—we're never out of school in this world—and my wife was a nursery-chum of Sue's mother—she was killed on the hunting-field ten years ago. Your aunt and I have always regarded the girl as our own. God somehow neglected to give us a chick—probably we would have neglected Him for it. We love children. So we've cottoned all the more to Sue.”
“I understand that Sue and I are intended for each other,” observed Garrison, a half-cynical smile at his lips.
“God bless my soul! How did you guess?”
“Why, she said so.”
Major Calvert chuckled. “God bless my soul again! That's Sue all over. She'd ask the devil himself for a glass of water if she was in the hot place, and insist upon having ice in it. 'Pon my soul she would. And what does she think of you? Likes you, eh?”
“No, she doesn't,” replied Garrison quietly.
“Tell you as much, eh?”
“Yes.”
Again Major Calvert chuckled. “Well, she told me different. Oh, yes, she did, you rascal. And I know Sue better than you do. Family wishes wouldn't weigh with her a particle if she didn't like the man. No, they wouldn't. She isn't the kind to give her hand where her heart isn't. She likes you. It remains with you to make her love you.”
“And that's impossible,” added Garrison grimly to himself. “If she only knew! Love? Lord!”
“Wait a minute,” said the major, as Garrison prepared to leave. “Here's a letter that came for you to-day. It got mixed up in my mail by accident.” He opened the desk-drawer and handed a square envelope to Garrison, who took it mechanically. “No doubt you've a good many friends up North,” added the major kindly. “Have 'em down here for as long as they can stay. Calvert House is open night and day. I do not want you to think that because you are here you have to give up old friends. I'm generous enough to share you with them, but—no elopements, mind.”
“I think it's merely a business letter,” replied Garrison indifferently, hiding his burning curiosity. He did not know who his correspondent could possibly be. Something impelled him to wait until he was alone in his room before opening it. It was from the eminent lawyer, Theobald D. Snark.
“BELOVED IMPOSTOR: 'Ars longa, vita brevis,' as the philosopher has truly said, which in the English signifies that I cannot afford to wait for the demise of the reverend and guileless major before I garner the second fruits of my intelligence. Ten thousand is a mere pittance in New York—one's appetite develops with cultivation, and mine has been starved for years—and I find I require an income. Fifty a week or thereabouts will come in handy for the present. I know you have access to the major's pocketbook, it being situated on the same side as his heart, and I will expect a draft by following mail. He will be glad to indulge the sporting blood of youth. If I cannot share the bed of roses, I can at least fatten on the smell. I would have to be compelled to tell the major what a rank fraud and unsurpassed liar his supposed nephew is. So good a liar that he even imposed upon me. Of course I thought you were the real nephew, and it horrifies me to know that you are a fraud. But, remember, silence is golden. If you feel any inclination of getting fussy, remember that I am a lawyer, and that I can prove I took your claim in good faith. Also, the Southerners are notoriously hot-tempered, deplorably addicted to firearms, and I don't think you would look a pretty sight if you happened to get shot full of buttonholes.”
The letter was unsigned, typewritten, and on plain paper. But Garrison knew whom it was from. It was the eminent lawyer's way not to place damaging evidence in the hands of a prospective enemy.
“This means blackmail,” commented Garrison, carefully replacing the letter in its envelope. “And it serves me right. I wonder do I look silly. I must; for people take me for a fool.”
Garrison did not sleep that night. His position was clearly credited and debited in the ledger of life. He saw it; saw that the balance was against him. He must go—but he could not, would not. He decided to take the cowardly, half-way measure. He had not the courage for renunciation. He would stay until this pot of contumacious fact came to the boil, overflowed, and scalded him out.
He was not afraid of the eminent Mr. Snark. Possession is in reality ten-tenths of the law. The lawyer had cleverly proven his—Garrison's—claim. He would be still more clever if he could disprove it. A lie can never be branded truth by a liar. How could he disprove it? How could his shoddy word weigh against Garrison's, fashioned from the whole cloth and with loyalty, love on Garrison's side?
No, the letter was only a bluff. Snark would not run the risk of publicly smirching himself—for who would believe his protestations of innocency?—losing his license at the bar together with the certainty of a small fortune, for the sake of over-working a tool that might snap in his hand or cut both ways. So Garrison decided to disregard the letter.
But with Waterbury it was a different proposition. Garrison was unaware what his own relations had been with his former owner, but even if they had been the most cordial, which from Major Calvert's accounts they had not been, that fact would not prevent Waterbury divulging the rank fraud Garrison was perpetrating.
The race-track annual had said Billy Garrison had followed the ponies since boyhood. Waterbury would know his ancestry, if any one would. It was only a matter of time until exposure came, but still Garrison determined to procrastinate as long as possible. He clung fiercely, with the fierce tenacity of despair, to his present life. He could not renounce it all—not yet.
Two hopes, secreted in his inner consciousness, supported indecision. One: Perhaps Waterbury might not recognize him, or perhaps he could safely keep out of his way. The second: Perhaps he himself was not Billy Garrison at all; for coincidence only said that he was, and a very small modicum of coincidence at that. This fact, if true, would cry his present panic groundless.
On the head of conscience, Garrison did not touch. He smothered it. All that he forced himself to sense was that he was “living like a white man for once”; loving as he never thought he could love.
The reverse, unsightly side of the picture he would not so much as glance at. Time enough when he was again flung out on that merciless, unrecognizing world he had come to loathe; loathe and dread. When that time came it would taste exceeding bitter in his mouth. All the more reason, then, to let the present furnish sweet food for retrospect; food that would offset the aloes of retribution. Thus Garrison philosophized.
And, though but vaguely aware of the fact, this philosophy of procrastination (but another form of selfishness) was the spawn of a supposition; the supposition that his love for Sue Desha was not returned; that it was hopeless, absurd. He was not injuring her. He was the moth, she the flame. He did not realize that the moth can extinguish the candle.
He had learned some of life's lessons, though the most difficult had been forgotten, but he had yet to understand the mighty force of love; that it contains no stagnant quality. Love, reciprocal love, uplifts. But there must be that reciprocal condition to cling to. For love is not selfishness on a grand scale, but a glorified pride. And the fine differentiation between these two words is the line separating the love that fouls from the love that cleanses.
And even as Garrison was fighting out the night with his sleepless thoughts, Sue Desha was in the same restless condition. Mr. Waterbury had arrived. His generous snores could be heard stalking down the corridor from the guest-chamber. He was of the abdominal variety of the animal species, eating and sleeping his way through life, oblivious of all obstacles.
Waterbury's ancestry was open to doubt. It was very vague; as vague as his features. It could not be said that he was brought up by his hair because he hadn't any to speak of. But the golden flood of money he commanded could not wash out certain gutter marks in his speech, person, and manner. That such an inmate should eat above the salt in Colonel Desha's home was a painful acknowledgment of the weight of necessity.
What the necessity was, Sue sensed but vaguely. It was there, nevertheless, almost amounting to an obsession. For when the Desha and Waterbury type commingle there is but the one interpretation. Need of money or clemency in the one case; need of social introduction or elevation through kinship in the other.
The latter was Waterbury's case. But he also loved Sue—in his own way. He had met her first at the Carter Handicap, and, as he confided to himself: “She was a spanking filly, of good stock, and with good straight legs.”
His sincere desire to “butt into the Desha family” he kept for the moment to himself. But as a preliminary maneuver he had intimated that a visit to the Desha home would not come in amiss. And the old colonel, for reasons he knew and Waterbury knew, thought it would be wisest to accede.
Perhaps now the colonel was considering those reasons. His room was next that of his daughter, and in her listening wakefulness she had heard him turn restlessly in bed. Insomnia loves company as does misery. Presently the colonel arose, and the strong smell of Virginia tobacco and the monotonous pad, pad of list slippers made themselves apparent.
Sue threw on a dressing-gown and entered her father's room. He was in a light green bathrobe, his white hair tousled like sea-foam as he passed and repassed his gaunt fingers through it.
“I can't sleep,” said the girl simply. She cuddled in a big armchair, her feet tucked under her.
He put a hand on her shoulder. “I can't, either,” he said, and laughed a little, as if incapable of understanding the reason. “I think late eating doesn't agree with me. It must have been the deviled crab.”
“Mr. Waterbury?” suggested Sue.
“Eh?” Then Colonel Desha frowned, coughed, and finally laughed. “Still a child, I see,” he added, with a deprecating shake of the head. “Will you ever grow up?”
“Yes—when you recognize that I have.” She pressed her cheek against the hand on her shoulder.
Sue practically managed the entire house, looking after the servants, expenses, and all, but the colonel always referred to her as “my little girl.” He was under the amiable delusion that time had left her at the ten-mile mark, never to return.
This was one of but many defects in his vision. He was oblivious of materialistic facts. He was innocent of the ways of finance. He had come of a prodigal race of spenders, not accumulators. Away back somewhere in the line there must have existed what New Englanders term a “good provider,” but that virtue had not descended from father to son. The original vast Desha estates decreased with every generation, seldom a descendant making even a spasmodic effort to replenish them. There was always a mortgage or sale in progress. Sometimes a lucrative as well as love-marriage temporarily increased the primal funds, but more often the opposite was the case.
The Deshas, like all true Southerners, believed that love was the only excuse for marriage; just as most Northerners believe that labor is the only excuse for living. And so the colonel, with no business incentive, acumen, or adaptability, and with the inherited handicap of a luxurious living standard, made a brave onslaught on his patrimony.
What the original estate was, or to what extent the colonel had encroached upon it, Sue never rightly knew. She had been brought up in the old faith that a Southerner is lord of the soil, but as she developed, the fact was forced home upon her that her father was not materialistic, and that ways and means were.
Twice yearly their Kentucky estate yielded an income. As soon as she understood affairs, Sue took a stand which could not be shaken, even if the easy-going mooning colonel had exerted himself to that extent. She insisted upon using one-half the yearly income for household expenses; the other the colonel could fritter away as he chose upon his racing-stable and his secondary hobby—an utterly absurd stamp collection.
Only each household knows how it meets the necessity of living. It is generally the mother and daughter, if there be one, who comprise the inner finance committee. Men are only Napoleons of finance when the market is strong and steady. When it becomes panicky and fluctuates and resolves itself into small unheroic deals, woman gets the job. For the world is principally a place where men work for the pleasures and woman has to cringe for the scraps. It may seem unchivalrous, but true nevertheless.
Only Sue knew how she compelled one dollar to bravely do the duty of two. Appearances are never so deceitful as in the household where want is apparently scorned. Sue was of the breed who, if necessary, could raise absolute pauperism to the peerage. And if ever a month came in which she would lie awake nights, developing the further elasticity of currency, certainly her neighbors knew aught of it, and her father least of all.
The colonel recommenced his pacing. Sue, hands clasped around knees, watched him with steady, unwinking eyes.
“It's not the deviled crab, daddy,” she said quietly, at length. “It's something else. 'Fess up. You're in trouble. I feel it. Sit down there and let me go halves on it. Sit down.”
Colonel Desha vaguely passed a hand through his hair, then, mechanically yielding to the superior strength and self-control of his daughter, eased himself into an opposite armchair.
“Oh, no, you're quite wrong, quite wrong,” he reiterated absently. “I'm only tired. Only tired, girlie. That's all. Been very busy, you know.” And he ran on feverishly, talking about Waterbury, weights, jockeys, mounts—all the jargon of the turf. The dam of his mind had given way, and a flood of thoughts, hopes, fears came rioting forth unchecked, unthinkingly.
His eyes were vacant, a frown dividing his white brows, the thin hand on the table closing and relaxing. He was not talking to his daughter, but to his conscience. It was the old threadbare, tattered tale—spawn of the Goddess fortune; a thing of misbegotten hopes and desires.
The colonel, swollen with the winning of the Carter Handicap, had conceived the idea that he was possessor of a God-given knowledge of the “game.” And there had been many to sustain that belief. Now, the colonel might know a horse, but he did not know the law of averages, of chance, nor did he even know how his fellow man's heart is fashioned. Nor that track fortunes are only made by bookies or exceptionally wealthy or brainy owners; that a plunger comes out on top once in a million times. That the track, to live, must bleed “suckers” by the thousand, and that he, Colonel Desha, was one of the bled.
He was on the wrong side of the table. The Metropolitan, Brooklyn, Suburban, Brighton, Futurity, and a few minor meets served to swamp the colonel. What Waterbury had to do with the case was not clear. The colonel had taken his advice time and time again only to lose. But the Kentucky estate had been sold, and Mr. Waterbury held the mortgage of the Desha home. And then, his mind emptied of its poison, the colonel slowly came to himself.
“What—what have I been saying?” he cried tensely. He attempted a laugh, a denial; caught his daughter's eyes, looked into them, and then buried his face in his quivering hands.
Sue knelt down and raised his head.
“Daddy, is that—all?” she asked steadily.
He did not answer. Then, man as he was, the blood came sweeping to face and neck.
“I mean,” added the girl quietly, her eyes, steady but very kind, holding his, “I had word from the National this morning saying that our account, the—the balance, was overdrawn—”
“Yes—I drew against it,” whispered Colonel Desha. He would not meet her eyes; he who had looked every man in the face. The fire caught him again. “I had to, girlie, I had to,” he cried over and over again. “I intended telling you. We'll make it up a hundred times over. It was my only chance. It's all up on the books—up on The Rogue. He'll win the Carter as sure as there's a God in heaven. It's a ten-thousand stake, and I've had twenty on him—the balance—your balance, girlie. I can pay off Waterbury—” The fire died away as quickly. Somehow in the stillness of the room, against the look in the girl's eyes, words seemed so pitifully futile, so blatant, so utterly trivial.
Sue's face was averted, eyes on floor, hands tensely clasping those of her father. Absolute stillness held the room. The colonel was staring at the girl's bent head.
“It's—it's all right, girlie. All right, don't fret,” he murmured thickly. “The Rogue will win—bound to win. You don't understand—you're only a girl—only a child——”
“Of course, Daddy,” agreed Sue slowly, wide-eyed. “I'm only a child. I don't understand.”
But she understood more than her father. She was thinking of Billy Garrison.
Major Calvert's really interested desire to see his pseudo nephew astride a mount afforded Garrison the legitimate opportunity of keeping clear of Mr. Waterbury for the next few days. The track was situated some three miles from Calvert House—a modern racing-stable in every sense of the word—and early the next morning Garrison started forth, accompanied by the indefatigable major.
Curiosity was stirring in the latter's heart. He had long been searching for a fitting rider for the erratic and sensitive Dixie—whimsical and uncertain of taste as any woman—and though he could not bring himself to believe in Crimmins' eulogy of Garrison's riding ability, he was anxious to ascertain how far the trainer had erred.
Crimmins was not given to airing his abortive sense of humor overmuch, and he was a sound judge of horse and man. If he was right—but the major had to laugh at such a possibility. Garrison to ride like that! He who had confessed he had never thrown a leg over a horse before! By a freak of nature he might possess the instinct but not the ability.
Perhaps he even might possess the qualifications of an exercise-boy; he had the build—a stripling who possessed both sinew and muscle, but who looked fatty tissue. But the major well knew that it is one thing to qualify as an exercise-boy and quite another to toe the mark as a jockey. For the former it is only necessary to have good hands, a good seat in the saddle, and to implicitly obey a trainer's instructions. No initiative is required. But it is absolutely essential that a boy should own all these adjuncts and many others—quickness of perception, unlimited daring, and alertness to make a jockey. No truer summing up of the necessary qualifications is there than the old and famous “Father Bill” Daly's doggerel and appended note:
“Just a tinge of wickedness,With a touch of devil-may-care;Just a bit of bone and meat,With plenty of nerve to dare.And, on top of all things—he must be a tough kid.”
And “Father Bill” Daly ought to know above all others, for he has trained more famous jockeys than any other man in America.
There are two essential points in the training of race-horses—secrecy and ability. Crimmins possessed both, but the scheduled situation of the Calvert stables rendered the secret “trying out” of racers before track entry unnecessary. It is only fair to state that if Major Calvert had left his trainer to his own judgment his stable would have made a better showing than it had. But the major's disposition and unlimited time caused him more often than not to follow the racing paraphrase: “Dubs butt in where trainers fear to tread.”
He was so enthusiastic and ignorant over horses that he insisted upon campaigns that had only the merit of good intentions to recommend them. Some highly paid trainers throw up their positions when their millionaire owners assume the role of dictator, but Crimmins very seldom lost his temper. The major was so boyishly good-hearted and bull-headed that Crimmins had come to view his master's racing aspirations almost as an expensive joke.
However, it seemed that the Carter Handicap and the winning by his very good friend and neighbor, Colonel Desha, had stuck firmly in Major Calvert's craw. He promised to faithfully follow his trainer's directions and leave for the nonce the preparatory training entirely in his hands.
It was decided now that Garrison should try out the fast black filly Dixie, just beginning training for the Carter. She had a hundred and twenty-five pounds of grossness to boil down before making track weight, but the opening spring handicap was five months off, and Crimmins believed in the “slow and sure” adage. Major Calvert, his old weather-beaten duster fluttering in the wind, took his accustomed perch on the rail, while Garrison prepared to get into racing-togs.
The blood was pounding in Garrison's heart as he lightly swung up on the sleek black filly. The old, nameless longing, the insistent thought that he had done all this before—to the roar of thousands of voices—possessed him.
Instinctively he understood his mount; her defects, her virtues. Instinctively he sensed that she was not a “whip horse.” A touch of the whalebone and she would balk—stop dead in her stride. He had known such horses before, generally fillies.
As soon as Garrison's feet touched stirrups all the condensed, colossal knowledge of track and horse-flesh, gleaned by the sweating labor of years, came tingling to his finger-tips. Judgment, instinct, daring, nerve, were all his; at his beck and call; serving their master. He felt every inch the veteran he was—though he knew it not. It was not a freak of nature. He had worked, worked hard for knowledge, and it would not be denied. He felt as he used to feel before he had “gone back.”
Garrison took Dixie over the seven furlongs twice, and in a manner, despite her grossness, the mare had never been taken before. She ran as easily, as relentlessly, without a hitch or break, as fine-spun silk slips through a shuttle. She was high-strung, sensitive to a degree, but Garrison understood her, and she answered his knowledge loyally.
It was impressive riding to those who knew the filly's irritability, uncertainty. Clean-cut veteran horsemanship, with horse and rider as one; a mechanically precise pace, heart-breaking for a following field. The major slowly climbed off the rail, mechanically eyeing his watch. He was unusually quiet, but there was a light in his eyes that forecasted disaster for his very good friend and neighbor, Colonel Desha, and The Rogue. It is even greater satisfaction, did we but acknowledge it, to turn the tables on a friend than on a foe.
“Boy,” he said impressively, laying a hand on Garrison's shoulder and another on Dixie's flank, “I've been looking for some one to ride Dixie in the Carter—some one who could ride; ride and understand. I've found that some one in my nephew. You'll ride her—ride as no one else can. God knows how you learned the game—I don't. But know it you do. Nor do I pretend to know how you understand the filly. I don't understand it at all. It must be a freak of nature.”
“Ho, yuss!” added Crimmins quietly, his eye on the silent Garrison. “Ho, yuss! It must be a miracle. But I tell you, major, it ain't no miracle. It ain't. That boy 'as earned 'is class. 'E could understand any 'orse. 'E's earned 'is class. It don't come to a chap in the night. 'E's got to slave f'r it—slave 'ard. Ho, yuss! Your neffy can ride, an' 'e can s'y wot 'e likes, but if 'e ain't modeled on Billy Garrison 'isself, then I'm a bloomin' bean-eating Dutchman! 'E's th' top spit of Garrison—th' top spit of 'im, or may I never drink agyn!”
There was sincerity, good feeling, and force behind the declaration, and the major eyed Garrison intently and with some curiosity.
“Come, haven't you ridden before, eh?” he asked good-humoredly. “It's no disgrace, boy. Is it hard-won science, as Crimmins says, or merely an unbelievable and curious freak of nature, eh?”
Garrison looked the major in the eye. His heart was pounding.
“If I've ever ridden a mount before—I've never known it,” he said, with conviction and truth.
Crimmins shook his head in hopeless despair. The major was too enthusiastic to quibble over how the knowledge was gained. It was there in overflowing abundance. That was enough. Besides, his nephew's word was his bond. He would as soon think of doubting the Bible.
For the succeeding days Garrison and the major haunted the track. It was decided that the former should wear his uncle's colors in the Carter, and he threw himself into the training of Dixie with all his painstaking energy and knowledge.
He proved a valuable adjunct to Crimmins; rank was waived in the stables, and a sincere regard sprang up between master and man, based on the fundamental qualities of real manhood and a mutual passion for horse-flesh. And if the acid little cockney suspected that Garrison had ever carried a jockey's license or been track-bred, he respected the other's silence, and refrained from broaching the question again.
Meanwhile, to all appearances, things were running in the harmonious groove over at the Desha home. Since the night of Mr. Waterbury's arrival Sue had not mentioned the subject of the overdrawn balance, and the colonel had not. If the girl thought her father guilty of a slight breach of honor, no hint of it was conveyed either in speech or manner.
She was broad-minded—the breadth and depth of perfect health and a clean heart. If she set up a high standard for herself, it was not to measure others by. The judgment of man entered into no part of her character; least of all, the judgment of a parent.
As for the colonel, it was apparent that he was not on speaking terms with his conscience. It made itself apparent in countless foolish little ways; in countless little means of placating his daughter—a favorite book, a song, a new saddle. These votive offerings were tendered in subdued silence fitting to the occasion, but Sue always lauded them to the skies. Nor would she let him see that she understood the contrition working in him. To Colonel Desha she was no longer “my little girl,” but “my daughter.” Very often we only recognize another's right and might by being in the wrong and weak ourselves.
Every spare minute of his day—and he had many—the colonel spent in his stables superintending the training of The Rogue. He was infinitely worse than a mother with her first child. If the latter acts as if she invented maternity, one would have thought the colonel had fashioned the gelding as the horse of Troy was fashioned.
The Rogue's success meant everything to him—everything in the world. He would be obliged to win. Colonel Desha was not one who believed in publishing a daily “agony column.” He could hold his troubles as he could his drink—like a gentleman. He had not intended that Sue should be party to them, but that night of the confession they had caught him unawares. And he played the host to Mr. Waterbury as only a Southern gentleman can.
That the turfman had motives other than mere friendship and regard when proffering his advice and financial assistance, the colonel never suspected. It was a further manifestation of his childish streak and his ignorance of his fellow man. His great fault was in estimating his neighbor by his own moral code. It had never occurred to him that Waterbury loved Sue, and that he had forced his assistance while helping to create the necessity for that assistance, merely as a means of lending some authority to his suit. But Waterbury possessed many likable qualities; he had stood friend to Colonel Desha, whatever his motives, and the latter honored him on his own valuation.
Fear never would have given the turfman the entrée to the Desha home; only friendship. Down South hospitality is sacred. When one has succeeded in entering a household he is called kin. A mutual trust and bond of honor exist between host and guest. The mere formula; “So-and-So is my guest,” is a clean bill of moral health. Therefore, in whatever light Sue may have regarded Mr. Waterbury, her treatment of him was uniformly courteous and kindly.
Necessarily they saw much of each other. The morning rides, formerly with Garrison, were now taken with Mr. Waterbury. This was owing partly to the former's close application to the track, partly to the courtesy due guest from hostess whose father is busily engaged, and in the main to a concrete determination on Sue's part. This intimacy with Sue Desha was destined to work a change in Waterbury.
He had come unworthy to the Desha home. He acknowledged that to himself. Come with the purpose of compelling his suit, if necessary. His love had been the product of his animalistic nature. It was a purely sensual appeal. He had never known the true interpretation of love; never experienced the society of a womanly woman. But it is in every nature to respond to the highest touch; to the appeal of honor. When trust is reposed, fidelity answers. It did its best to answer in Waterbury's case. His better self was slowly awakening.
Those days were wonderful, new, happy days for Waterbury. He was received on the footing of guest, good comrade. He was fighting to cross the line, searching for the courage necessary—he who had watched without the flicker of an eyelash a fortune lost by an inch of horse-flesh. And if the girl knew, she gave no sign.
As for Garrison, despite his earnest attention to the track, those were unhappy days for him. He thought that he had voluntarily given up Sue's society; given it up for the sake of saving his skin; for the fear of meeting Waterbury. Time and time again he determined to face the turfman and learn the worst. Cowardice always stepped in. Presently Waterbury would leave for the North, and things then would be as they had been.
He hated himself for his cowardice; for his compromise with self-respect. It was not that he valued Sue's regard so lightly. Rather he feared to lose the little he had by daring all. He did not know that Sue had given him up. Did not know that she was hurt, mortally hurt; that her renunciation had not been necessary; that he had not given her the opportunity. He had stayed away, and she wondered. There could be but the one answer. He must hate this tie between them; this parent-fostered engagement. He was thinking of the girl he had left up North. Perhaps it was better for her, she argued, that she had determined upon renunciation.
Obviously Major Calvert and his wife noticed the breach in the Garrison-Desha entente cordiale. They credited it to some childish quarrel. They were wise in their generation. Old heads only muddle young hearts. To confer the dignity of age upon the differences of youth but serves to turn a mole-hill into a mountain.
But one memorable evening, when the boyish and enthusiastic major and Garrison returned from an all-day session at the track, they found Mrs. Calvert in a very quiet and serious mood, which all the major's cajolery could not penetrate. And after dinner she and the major had a peace conference in the library, at the termination of which the doughty major's feathers were considerably agitated.
Mrs. Calvert's good nature was not the good nature of the faint-hearted or weak-kneed. She was never at loss for words, nor the spirit to back them when she considered conditions demanded them. Subsequently, when his wife retired, the major, very red in the face, called Garrison into the room.
“Eh, demmit, boy,” he began, fussing up and down, “I've noticed, of course, that you and Sue don't pull in the same boat. Now, I thought it was due to a little tiff, as soon straightened as tangled, when pride once stopped goading you on. But your aunt, boy, has other ideas on the subject which she had been kindly imparting to me. And it seems that I'm entirely to blame. She says that I've caused you to neglect Sue for Dixie. Eh, boy, is that so?” He paused, eyeing Garrison in distress.
“No, it is not,” said Garrison heavily. “It is entirely my fault.”
The major heartily sighed his relief.
“Eh, demmit, I said as much to your aunt, but she knows I'm an old sinner, and she has her doubts. I told her if you could neglect Sue for Dixie your love wasn't worth a rap. I knew there was something back of it. Well, you must go over to-night and straighten it out. These little tiffs have to be killed early—like spring chickens. Sue has her dander up, I tell you. She met your aunt to-day. Said flatly that she had broken the engagement; that it was final—”
“Oh, she did?” was all Garrison could find to interrupt with.
“Eh, demmit; pride, boy, pride,” said the major confidently. “Now, run along over and apologize; scratch humble gravel—clear down to China, if necessary. And mind you do it right proper. Some people apologize by saying: 'If I've said anything I'm sorry for, I'm glad of it.' Eh, demmit, remember never to compete for the right with a woman. Women are always right. Man shouldn't be his own press-agent. It's woman's position—and delight. She values man on her own valuation—not his. Women are illogical—that's why they marry us.”
The major concluded his advice by giving Garrison a hearty thump on the back. Then he prepared to charge his wife's boudoir; to resume the peace conference with right on his side for the nonce.
Garrison slowly made his way down-stairs. His face was set. He knew his love for Sue was hopeless; an absurdity, a crime. But why had she broken the engagement? Had Waterbury said anything? He would go over and face Waterbury; face him and be done with it. He was reckless, desperate. As he descended the wide veranda steps a man stepped from behind a magnolia-tree shadowing the broad walk. A clear three-quarter moon was riding in the heavens, and it picked out Garrison's thin set face.
The man swung up, and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hello, Bud!”
It was Dan Crimmins.